Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel

by Amanda Heger

  “We usually start handing out tickets around three o’clock,” he said.

  Julia arrived, barking like a general readying her troops for battle. “Are we ready yet?”

  Behind her a cameraman scanned over the crowd, and Penny handed out release forms like candy.

  “Y’all are shooting here. Well spank my momma’s monkey.” Eye Shadow pointed at the camera and nudged Tommy’s elbow.

  Evan glanced at Marisol, expecting her eyes to be lit with laughter. These people would be perfect for television. But instead, she watched the butterfly girls with keen interest. They kept typing on their phones, then staring at Marisol, then typing some more.

  “Are all the right people here, Penny?” Julia asked.

  Penny scanned the crowd, then nodded.

  Right people? The line seemed like it was filled with all the wrong people—which, to be fair, made them the right people for television.

  “Let’s roll, guys.” Julia gave Evan a nudge and pointed at the texting butterflies. “Those girls are way out of your league. Start there.”

  “But—”

  The producer’s eyebrows went so high they disappeared into her messy crop of hair.

  Evan took a deep breath and let resignation fill his lungs. “Okay, fine.”

  The cameraman strolled over to them and the crowd went suddenly silent. When Evan and Marisol had come up with this idea that night at the diner, they’d imagined a group of people so enthralled with the idea of being on Who’s Got the Coconut they’d barely notice him working the line and begging for girls’ numbers. He’d never imagined they’d become an actual attraction.

  “Now is your final test, young mealworm.” Marisol stared straight into the camera as she said the words, dead serious.

  No one watching at home would know how hard she’d laughed coming up with that stupidly funny line. How proud she’d seemed. How insanely beautiful she looked as she’d jotted it down on the notebook they’d passed back and forth over their plates of greasy burgers and fries.

  And she looked just as beautiful now, watching as the camera followed him up and down the length of the line—following so close that turning around would mean a close-up of his nostrils. He wanted to shrug it off, tell the guy to give him room to breathe. But doing so would taunt Hurricane Julia.

  “Hey.” He leaned on—and stumbled against—the velvet rope separating him from the line. Great. Apparently he could still be awkward without trying.

  “Hi.” The butterfly batted her pink eyelashes and tossed her pink-streaked hair over one leotard-covered shoulder. Maybe leotard was too generous a description. A big slice of the stretchy fabric was missing, revealing the girl’s flat stomach—which she’d covered with about a billion pink jewels.

  “Hold on.” Julia yanked him away. “You’re supposed to look dopey. Not like someone killed your cat.”

  This girl probably modeled for off-brand lingerie companies on the weekend, while waiting for her big break. Which would probably come, because she was objectively gorgeous. But nothing about her held his interest. “Sorry, right. Dopey. No dead cats.”

  He approached again. But this time, he kept his eyes on her face. No roaming. Not even to the horrible, garish wings on her back that would certainly block the view of anyone seated behind her—assuming she got into Who’s Got the Coconut. Which she wouldn’t. Not with her stomach showing. Everyone knew the network hated midriffs.

  “Hey.” He cleared his throat. I can’t believe I’m going to say this. “I was wondering, do you know what’s hung like a horse and winks?” Evan’s upper body went stiff, bracing him for the smack that was sure to come.

  Pink Butterfly giggled. “No.”

  Oh God.

  The cameraman moved to get them both in the shot.

  Evan’s face burned as he pushed away his last morsels of self-respect. And then winked at the girl.

  More giggling.

  He laid it on thicker. “Can I get your digits?”

  The butterfly fished a marker from between her breasts and grabbed his forearm. As the camera watched, she jotted down a series of numbers. Followed by her name. Followed by a heart. Followed by the outline of a butterfly. “So you won’t forget me.”

  This was the opposite of what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to get rejected again and again. The Lady Killer was supposed to be so inept at picking up women he couldn’t even get the weirdest people in the world to agree to date him.

  “Cut,” Julia said.

  “What the Sam Hill is this?” Eye Shadow Lady shoved her way through the line. Butterfly’s pink-rimmed eyes widened.

  “Never mind. Keep rolling,” Julia said.

  “Listen here. You want to be happy like me and Tommy, you need to go after the right girl. This ain’t the right girl for you, son.”

  “It’s not?” Evan stepped back, half expecting her to pull a switchblade out of her cutoffs.

  “Marivan. That’s where it’s at.”

  “Marivan?” He looked at Marisol, who shrugged.

  “Your celebrity couple name. Come on now, you can’t be as dumb as you pretend to be on the TV.”

  “What’s going on?” Butterfly asked. She ran a finger along the numbers on his arm, then leaned in close. So close he felt her breath on his ear. “Is this part of the show? Will I be able to get a clip for my reel?” she whispered.

  “Hole-y shit.” Eye Shadow Lady wedged her way between them and gave Butterfly the smallest shove. “Girl, don’t you respect true love?”

  The cameraman kept rolling. And so did the rest of the people in line. In two seconds, a dozen phones pointed in the direction of the chaos. Followed by a rush of men in jeans and T-shirts—paparazzi—shouting and capturing their reactions with the click of heavyweight cameras. “Evan! Marisol! Come on, Evan. Lay one on her for the camera!”

  “Marisol, any truth to the rumors about your porn star past?” another yelled.

  “Evan, what’s going on?” Marisol whispered.

  “You were spotted leaving a set that has been long-rumored as an adult film hub. Certainly you have some explanation for that.” The pap kept talking as he snapped photo after photo of Marisol’s mortified expression.

  “Where do you see your career going after this, Evan? What about you, Marisol? Will your patients still take you seriously?”

  Evan grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

  They took off, ducking through the side door and into the quiet air-conditioned studio. “You okay?” he asked.

  Her hands shook, and she jammed them into her pockets. “Yes. I think.”

  “Are you sure?” He rested a hand on her lower back, trying to somehow quiet the unease between them.

  “I thought you said no one watches this show.”

  “It’s complicated. We—”

  The doors swung open and Penny stepped in, holding her phone toward them. “You guys always pick the worst light.”

  “What the hell, Penny?” Evan asked.

  “Whatever. Don’t be so clueless.” Penny snapped another photo. “Smile. It’s time to give out the wristbands.”

  “When am I doing my presentation?” Marisol’s voice quaked, and she kept her eyes trained on the floor.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” He definitely did not want to drop the news about the presentation right now. Not when she looked like this, like she’d already been betrayed twice over. “It’s kind of—”

  She finally looked up at him. “When am I doing the presentation?”

  Shit.

  “I, uh… I’m not sure. Stay here. I’ll find out.”

  • • •

  Marisol paced the hallway, unsure of what to do next. Leaving seemed out of the question. Who knew when James would call her back to practice her presentation? But the idea of staying here while all those photographers swarmed outside made her stomach churn. The thrill of being recognized was being worn thin. Especially after those crazy people from Oklahoma and last night’s n
ear miss with—

  “Marisol?”

  “Clint?” She had to look twice. In a T-shirt and jeans he looked more human and less like a Calvin Klein model.

  “Hey! So it worked, huh?”

  Her face froze in horror. “What worked?”

  “That whole delivery boy thing. Evan got you to come back to the show. I could tell he had a thing for you. Written all over the poor schmuck’s face.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Going to watch the taping. Same as you. Evan got me a ticket. Said if I waited here he’d give me a backstage tour.”

  The flickers of fear that started with the fight outside lit to roaring blaze. It took a solid three seconds for her mind to spiral to the worst case scenario: a world where no one from the conference took her seriously. Where her last interview got cancelled, again. Where no one showed up to her presentation. Where she’d be forced to go home and tell her mother she’d screwed everything up. Proving once and for all she wasn’t responsible enough for anything.

  Julia’s head poked through the maze of doors. “Marisol, we need you.”

  Marisol forced her lungs to keep breathing as she contemplated her choices. One: go with Julia and hide from Clint for the rest of her life. Two: word vomit everything right there and hope he’d keep her secret. Or three: run.

  She was out the door and halfway across the parking lot before she’d accepted her choice. So what if James didn’t give her presentation pointers? So what if the show took the Ahora website links down? She couldn’t breathe with the pressure and the accusations and the secrets bearing down on her like this.

  Outside, she fell into a crush of people. They moved in one slow line, sweating in the sun and staring at their phones. To her right, two BIRTHDAY GIRL! balloons fluttered in the wind. Their bright red strings ended at the front of a walker and one all-too-familiar face.

  “Betty,” she whispered.

  This was the line for the show. She’d tried to run away and ran straight toward it.

  Keeping her head down, she jutted through a small gap. “Con permiso.” The bus stop was only a half block away. If she could just—

  “Marisol? Wait! Are you okay?” The tone of Clint’s voice said he was more confused than ever.

  She walked faster.

  “Hey, wait up. Please.”

  The prickle of two dozen eyes watching her every move was becoming entirely too familiar. She froze.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?” Clint asked.

  “I am—” the lie caught on her throat and she struggled to force it out. “I am fine.”

  “Marisol! Marisol. Over here. Just one more picture?” A man shoved a camera lens into her face.

  “Who’s this?” another asked. “Where’s Evan?”

  The paparazzi kept coming, and the roar of their questions grew so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. How in the span of a few days had it reached this level of crazy?

  “Come on.” She grabbed Clint’s arm and dragged him across the street to the relative safety of Wonton Queen.

  Inside the restaurant, the smell of deep fried food and salty sauces billowed in the air. The tables sat empty except for one, where a middle-aged man with his back to the door lorded over a table brimming with small plates.

  “You! Welcome. Sit.” The kind voice came from the owner, and Marisol felt guilty she couldn’t remember the woman’s name. Something with an E sound. Eunice? Ella? Edna?

  “Hi. Thank you.” She dragged Clint to a table as far from the other patron as humanly possible. The chances a forty-something man eating dim sum at three o’clock in the afternoon would recognize her were slim to none. But then again Evan had also told her the chances of anyone from the conference knowing she was on the show were slim to none.

  “What’s going on?” Clint asked. “Why are we over here when we could be over there getting a tour? And why did all those people know you? And why does the woman working behind the counter know you?”

  Marisol waved a menu at the owner. Maybe if they took one of every item off the cart, he’d eat enough to get sleepy and pass out. Then she could make a break for it. Tomorrow she’d convince him the entire thing had been a soy-sauce-laced hallucination.

  Clint put a hand on her arm. “Marisol?”

  Her phone vibrated. Evan.

  Where are you?

  In hiding, that was where. And she wasn’t about to come out any time soon. She slipped the hunk of plastic into her purse.

  “Earth to Marisol.” Clint tapped a finger on the table, and then the crinkles in this forehead smoothed. “Is your blood sugar off or something? We can order—”

  For one shameful second, she considered faking it. “No. I feel fine.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  The older woman pushed the cart toward them, one wheel rattling against the metal and announcing her approach. “He says all plates are on him.” She nodded toward the gentleman in the back.

  “What?” Marisol asked.

  At that moment, the man turned and gave a little wave. James January.

  “Holy shit. Is that really him?” Immediately Clint began smoothing and tucking everything. His T-shirt. His hair. His T-shirt again.

  “It is me.” James made it to their table in three gangly legged strides. “Grabbing a bite before the big show?”

  Marisol grabbed a plate of egg rolls from the cart and stuffed one in her mouth.

  “James.” The television show host stuck out his hand.

  Clint’s face blanked for an uncomfortable amount of time before he returned from whatever fanboy planet he’d visited. “Clint. Clint McIntyre. I’m a big fan.”

  “So you’re him.” James slid into one of the empty chairs.

  “Him?” Clint tucked his shirt in again.

  “My fan.”

  “Oh, ha. Right. I get it.”

  Clint had seemed perfectly comfortable at the conference, surrounded by CEOs, CFOs, COOs. Every kind of C-something-O title Americans loved foisting upon themselves. But here in front of a failing television show host, he’d become a hot mess.

  Marisol took another bite of egg roll. At least these were as good as she’d remembered.

  “It’s usually not funny if you have to explain it.” James turned his gaze on Marisol. “You need to get laid, my friend.”

  She nearly choked, spitting and sputtering until she caught her breath. “What?”

  “You’re practically making love to that egg roll over there.”

  “Wait.” Clint pried his stare away from James. “You know him, too?”

  Marisol closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Not as well as she knows Evan,” James said.

  She sank into her chair.

  “You and Evan are a thing?” Clint seemed to have lost all of his nervousness and replaced it with incredulity.

  “No,” Marisol said.

  “That’s not what the intertubes are saying.” James pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. “Just click the little hashtag right there. Hashtag Marivan. Our interns are pretty smart, even if you could drive a train through the holes in their common sense.”

  Marisol tried not to stare at the photo currently on the screen, but it was impossible. In it, she was running through the crowd, grimacing as she pulled Clint along behind her. It had to have been taken only a few minutes ago.

  “Has the Marivan crashed?” she read the words aloud.

  “Well, has it?” James asked. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “I did not know anything about this. I did not know there was a Marivan.” She clicked the hashtag and photo after photo loaded on the screen. Nearly every moment—even some she’d thought had been private—of the last few days stared back at her on that tiny screen.

  Clint cleared his throat. “Speaking of inquiring minds—can someone tell me what’s going on?”

  James explained it all while she scrolled through more of the photos. The first handful w
ere from today. The ones of her sprinting across the street with Clint brought out comments so nasty her stomach threatened to toss the eggrolls.

  Slutting it up.

  Didn’t take her long to find a new dope. Must have run out of them wherever she came from.

  Poor Evan. He can do better.

  Follow me back, PLEASE. I love you Marisol!

  Hot photos all day all night. XXX

  She swallowed the bile climbing her throat and scrolled further. A few photos of the earlier snafu, followed by a hundred comments speculating on the cause. How had so many people already found the photos? And why did most everyone believe she was the one to blame, even though she wasn’t in a majority of those photos?

  She scrolled further.

  A photo of her and Evan chatting. Standing a little too close. Looking a little too happy. She couldn’t stand to read the comments on that one.

  She scrolled and scrolled and scrolled. The photos kept appearing. How many people had grabbed her photo in the last few days without her knowledge? She scrolled to the very first one. She and Evan on the set of the “paint and crank” sketch. Posted on Monday by So Late It’s Early.

  She clicked through to the show’s account, stopping to glance at its thousands of followers—followers like PhillipFarmer and LacyinChicago and HotRamenDTF—before taking in the hundreds of photos posted in the last few days. All with captions that painted her as a not-so-bright-love guru who was not-so-secretly in love with her protégé.

  “Take this down.” She shoved the phone toward James.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know how it works. I’m old. Besides, Penny told you she was going to handle the social media, right?”

  “She didn’t say it would be like this. She didn’t say she would make people hate me.”

  “Oh, darling. You’re famous now. People will hate you.” James shrugged. “It’s going quite well I think. I need to head over. I think I’ve stayed away long enough to make Julia batty by now.”

  “Wait.” Marisol grabbed his arm. “When are we going to discuss my presentation?”